That Friday, a Chinese party would be arriving for a three-week tour of Kenya and Tanzania that I would not be on. Dad would take the truck and Kilonzo would drive the cruiser, so I had to drop it off at the garage for service. I swung by the office afterwards to see if Mom would go to lunch with me but she was just on her way to the bank. 

“You could come with me,” she offered, but I wasn’t about to fall for that. The bank was probably the first of many errands she had lined up that day. 

“No way,” I said. “I might go and say hi to Dad before he goes on the next trip. I haven’t seen him in a while.” 

“You haven’t seen me in a while either.” 

“Yes, that’s why I’m here. But you’re busy.” 

“If you’re going home, make sure you talk to your brother. He hasn’t left his room in days, not even to eat. But don’t tell him I said so.”

“How else would I know he wasn’t eating?” 

 We had a back and forth about that for a few minutes; my mother fretting and me soaking up all of her anxiety. It’ll be fine, Mom. I’ll talk to him, Mom. You need to give him time, Mom. Then she went to the bank and I took a bus to my parents’ house. Dad was having a nap in the living room when I arrived. He had a newspaper on his lap and a pair of reading glasses resting on his chest, held around his neck by a cord. 

I decided not to wake him and instead went through the kitchen to Mark’s room in the back. His door was slightly ajar, letting out a stream of Lo-Fi music and the smell of sour pineapple. He was playing a video game with the curtains drawn; one of those weird dreamscape quests that just go on and on in loops. I kicked a crashed can on my way in; the stuff was littered all over the floor. 

“Since when do you drink pineapple punch? Are you weaning yourself off the strong stuff?” I teased, throwing the curtains open so that the room was flooded with light. Knowing him, it was more likely that he was using it as a chaser. He winced and shielded his eyes. Mom was right to worry, he looked gaunt. “You’ve lost weight. Are you not eating?” 

“Did Mom send you to check up on me?” 

“Pfft! No. I actually came to get the keys to Dad’s car.” 

“I have dibs on the car.” 

“What for? You never go anywhere. Dad already said I could have it.” A blatant lie, but one that I would get away with. “I brought takeout. Get cleaned up, we’ll eat in a bit.” 

Back in my old room, which had become a storage room in my absence, I rifled through my Mom’s old trunks. I fully expected to prove that Mark had not in fact been to Michigan as a toddler. Instead, I stumbled on a two-hundred-page, hardcover album of my wedding day pictures. I didn’t know Mom had gone to such trouble to preserve those pictures. Even I hadn’t. I’d framed two or three, but the rest were on a flash drive somewhere. 

It was upsetting to be assaulted with the memory of my wedding so suddenly. We held it in the first week of December, when the gardens were green and it was least likely to rain on the day. I chose an olive and gold theme for the reception, decorated with pink roses, white calla lilies and baby’s breath. I hated the idea of bare tables, so I insisted on and paid for candles and succulents for centrepieces. I was going for a tasteful, prairie vibe for the reception, which was the only option within our budget. 

I did, however, splurge on an ivory, lace trumpet dress that frothed around my feet like waves, which people stepped on repeatedly, including Mundia, and I spent the whole time worrying about it ripping. Mundia wore an olive bow tie and pocket square I had custom made to go with his ivory dinner jacket, while his groomsmen wore black. The MC made a thoughtless comment that implied they looked more dapper than the groom. Everyone seemed to agree that olive is not a black man’s colour, and this became the running jape. 

Mundia spent an inordinate amount of time explaining that he hadn’t been involved in the planning, so that the butt of the joke fell squarely on me. I had to stand there with a strained smile, listening as he distanced himself while stepping on my dress, not quite realising that this was only a pebble on the mountain of annoyances I would have to endure. 

Still, it was a beautiful, sunny day — famously the bride’s day. I wore my happiness like armour; nobody could get to me. Jill and Noni were my bridesmaids. Nora did my make-up. Waita and Leilei were on Mundia’s side of the bridal party, while Kami and Mark worked the gift tent. Mundia’s people came down from Sagana and brought wall trays, papyrus baskets and gourds bedecked with shells, all which were decorating my kitchen. My people brought sisal baskets, wooden spoons and clay pots that I was never going to cook in and which ended up holding my bamboo and lavender plants. My mother’s chama group gifted us a thirty two piece dinner set I have never had occasion to use. Dad’s gift to me was a Japanese cast iron kettle identical to one of his that I had always wanted. It made a fine addition to my outdoor camping kit and between you and me, was my favourite gift. 

We got a ton more gifts — a toaster, blender, microwave, tea sets, wine glasses, cutlery, cookware, paintings, picture frames — I had forgotten all about them. The gifts, but also how much both sides of the family had invested in our wedding. Faced with the magnitude of what I was about to unravel, I doubted every decision I’d made in the last two months. As a chock to keep myself from backing down, I decided to break the news to someone in the family. Mark first, then my parents. That was the protocol for these kinds of things. 

“What happened?” he asked. 

“Nothing happened. It wasn’t a big blow up or anything. It’s been hanging in the balance for some time, but now I think I’ve decided. I’m done.” 

“That sucks. I mean I’ve known that you were unhappy, what with the panic attacks and all. I was just waiting for you to admit it.” 

“I wasn’t ready at that time. But I met someone I like and I remembered what happiness felt like and now I’m ready to admit it.”

“Does his name start with an N and end with a Z?” 

“No, smartass. It starts with an N and ends with an R. His name is Nazir.” 

“Is he good to you?” 

“Sure. He’s nice.” 

“What do you like about him?” 

“He… loves animals and people; he’s very kind, but he’s also a bit of a recluse so I’m not sure. Maybe people exhaust him, or he’s just one of those fiercely independent people. He reads a lot of books, but not in a pretentious way. He does it to satisfy his curiosity, which makes him an interesting person to talk to. He’s one of those existentialist types. He interrogates things, like you can tell that there’s someone in there actually piloting the body. I think you would like him, actually. I think you would get along.”

“Sounds like it. What don’t you like about him?” 

“Nothing! Why would you ask me that?” 

“So it’s just a crush.” 

“No. He’s quirky, a bit of an odd duck, but I like quirky. I like odd ducks.”

“But nothing alarming? No red flags?” 

I thought back to the night of our little fight. Nazir was a bit intense, but he did not diminish me. And coming from the indifferent end of the pendulum, I did not mind intensity. 

“Nothing concerning,” I assured Mark.  

We had a leisurely lunch with Dad, listening to New Jack Swing on our ancient radio. It was a lazy afternoon, uneventful even, until life delivered its first blow and wouldn’t stop swinging until it drew blood.                                                  

***

To be continued…